Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла. Уровень 2 / The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

“I thank you,” replied the vicar; “but I prefer to take a glass of your excellent ale, if it's possible.”

“With pleasure!” cried my mother, pulled the bell and ordered the beverage.

“I've visited Mrs. Graham, you know” continued he.

“Have you, indeed?”

He nodded gravely, and added with awful emphasis. Then he struck his stick on the floor. My “'Mrs. Graham,' said I,” he continued, “'these are terrible reports!' 'What, sir?' says she. 'It is my duty as your pastor,' said I, 'to tell you them.' So I told her!”

“You did, sir?” cried I.

He merely glanced towards me, and continued:

“It was a painful duty, Mrs. Markham – but I told her!”

“And how did she take it?” asked my mother.

“She turned white in the face,” he replied; “and drew her breath through her teeth. But she offered no extenuation or defence. She told me that my remonstrance was unavailing, that my presence was displeasing while I spoke such things. I sadly grieved to find her case so hopeless.

Mrs. Markham, my daughters must not consort with her. As for your sons, as for you, young man…” he continued.

“As for me, sir,” I began, but snatched up my hat and bolted from the room. The next minute I was hurrying in the direction of Wildfell Hall.

Chapter XII

In little more than twenty minutes the journey was accomplished. I paused at the gate to wipe my forehead, and recover my breath. The rapid walking mitigated my excitement; and with a firm and steady tread I paced the garden-walk. I caught a sight of Mrs. Graham, through the open window. She seemed agitated and even dismayed at my arrival.

“I am come at an unseasonable hour,” said I; “but I won't stay long.”

She smiled upon me.

“How dismal you are, Helen! Why have you no fire?” I said.

“It is summer yet,” she replied.

“But we always have a fire in the evenings; and you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.”

“You must not stay long, Gilbert,” said she.

“I'm not going to,” said I. “But, Helen, I've something to say to you before I go.”

“What is it?”

“No, not now – I don't know yet precisely what it is, or how to say it,” replied I.

Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the fire.

“Gilbert, it is getting late,” Helen said.

“I see,” said I. “You want me to go, I suppose?”

“I think you ought. If my kind neighbours know of this visit – as no doubt they will – they will not turn it much to my advantage.”

“Let them turn it as they will,” said I. “What are their thoughts to you or me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves – and each other. Let them go to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying inventions!”

“You have heard, then, what they say of me?”

“I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools credit them, Helen, so don't let them trouble you.”

“I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all. However little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be a liar and a hypocrite.”

“True. So authorise me to clear your name from every. Give me the right to identify your honour with my own, and to defend your reputation as more precious than my life!”

“Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom everybody despises? Think! It is a serious thing.”

“I shall be proud to do it, Helen! And if that is the obstacle to our union, it is demolished, and you must be mine!”

I seized her hand and wanted to press it to my lips, but she suddenly caught it away:

“No, no, it is not all!”

“What is it, then? You promised to tell me.”

“You will know some time – but not now – my head aches terribly,” she said, “and I must have some repose.”

“But if you tell me,” I persisted: “it will ease your mind; and I shall then know how to comfort you.”

She shook her head despondingly.

“You will blame me – perhaps even more than I deserve.”

“You, Helen? Impossible!”

“I did not know the strength and depth of your feelings.”

She clasped her hands upon her knee, and calmly said,

“Tomorrow, if you meet me on the moor about midday, I will tell you all.”

“I will; but answer me this one question first. Do you love me?”

“I will not answer it!”

“Then I will conclude you do; and so good-night.”

She turned from me. I took her hand and fervently kissed it.

“Gilbert, do leave me!” she cried.

It was cruel to disobey. I left.

I went up to the garden wall, and stood there. Then I vaulted over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation: I wanted to see her one more time.

I looked. Her chair was vacant: so was the room. But at that moment someone opened the door, and a voice – her voice! said,

“Let's come out. I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening air.”

I stood in the shadow of the tall bush, which was standing between the window and the porch. I saw two figures in the moonlight: Mrs. Graham and another, a young man, slender and rather tall. O heavens, how my temples throbbed! It was Mr. Lawrence!

“I must leave this place, Frederick,” she said, “I never can be happy here, nor anywhere else, indeed.”

“But where can you find a better place?” replied he, “so secluded – so near me, if you think anything of that.”

“Yes,” interrupted she, “it is all I wish, if they only leave me alone.”

“But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources of annoyance. I cannot lose you:I must go with you, or come to you. There are fools elsewhere, as well as here.”

They sauntered slowly past me, and I heard no more of their discourse. But he put his arm round her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his shoulder. Then a tremulous darkness obscured my sight, my heart sickened and my head burned like fire. I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and despair – how long, I cannot say. Then I rose and journeyed homewards.

“Oh, Gilbert! Where have you been? Do come in and take your supper, ” my mother said. “But you look ill! Oh, gracious! What is the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing – give me a candle.”

“But won't you take some supper?”

“No; I want to go to bed,” said I.

“Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!” exclaimed she. “How white you look! Tell me what it is? Has anything happened?”

“It's nothing!” cried I.

What a miserable night it was! I was deceived, duped, hopeless, my angel was not an angel!

Chapter XIII

“My dear Gilbert, can you be a little more amiable?” said my mother one morning. “You say nothing has happened to grieve you, and yet I never saw anyone so altered as you within these last few days. You haven't a good word for anybody. You don't know how it spoils you.”

I took up a book, and opened it on the table before me. My mischievous brother suddenly called out,

“Don't touch him, mother! He'll bite! He's a tiger in human form. He nearly fractured my skull because I was singing a pretty, inoffensive love-song, on purpose to amuse him.”

“I told you to hold your noise, Fergus,” said I.

I recollected that I had business with Robert Wilson. I was going to buy his field.

He was absent; and I stepped into the parlour and waited. Mrs. Wilson was busy in the kitchen, but the room was not empty. There sat Miss Wilson, she was chattering with Eliza Millward. However, I determined to be cool and civil. Eliza asked:

“Have you seen Mrs. Graham lately?”

“Not lately,” I replied.

“What! Are you beginning to tire already?”

“I prefer not to speak of her now.”

“Ah! You have at length discovered that your divinity is not quite the immaculate – ”

“I desired you not to speak of her, Miss Eliza.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon! I perceive Cupid's arrows are too sharp for you:the wounds are not yet healed and bleed afresh.”

“Mr. Markham feels,” interposed Miss Wilson, “that this name is unworthy to be mentioned.”

I rose and walked to the window. Mr. Wilson soon arrived. I quickly concluded the bargain. Then I gladly quitted the house.

I ascended the hill. Then I beheld Mrs. Graham and her son. They saw me; and Arthur already was running to meet me; but I immediately turned back and walked steadily homeward. I determined never to encounter his mother again.

This incident agitated and disturbed me. Cupid's arrows were not too sharp for me, but they were barbed and deeply rooted. I was not able to wrench them from my heart. So I was miserable for the remainder of the day.

Chapter XIV

Next morning I mounted my horse. It was a dull, drizzly day. As I trotted along, I heard another horse at no great distance behind me. It was Mr. Lawrence! He began to talk about the weather and the crops. I gave the briefest possible answers to his queries and observations. He asked if my horse was lame. I replied with a look, at which he placidly smiled.

“Markham,” said he, “why do you quarrel with your friends? Your hopes are defeated; but how am I to blame for it? I warned you beforehand, you know, but you – ”

I seized my whip by the small end, and brought the other down upon his head. He reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell backward to the ground.

I left the fellow to his fate, and galloped away. Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and I turned and went back. It was no generous impulse; it was, simply, the voice of conscience.

Mr. Lawrence and his pony both altered their positions in some degree. The pony wandered eight or ten yards further away; and he managed, somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road. He was looking very white and sickly, and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more red than white) to his head.

I dismounted, fastened my horse to the nearest tree, and picked up his hat. I was going to clap it on his head. But he took it from my hand, and scornfully cast it aside.

“It's good enough for you,” I muttered.

Then I wanted to catch his pony and bring it to him.

“Here, you fellow – scoundrel – dog – give me your hand, and I'll help you to mount.”

No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm. He shrank away.

“Well! You may sit there till doomsday.”

“Let me alone, if you please.”

“Humph; with all my heart. You may go to the devil – and say I sent you.”

I threw him my handkerchief, as his own was saturated with blood. He took it and cast it back to me in abhorrence and contempt. I remounted my horse and trotted away to the town.

Bad news flies fast. It was hardly four o'clock when I got home, but my mother gravely accosted me with,

“Oh, Gilbert! Such an accident! Rose was shopping in the village, and she heard that Mr. Lawrence was thrown from his horse. He is dying!”

This shocked me.

“You must go and see him tomorrow,” said my mother.

“Or today,” suggested Rose: “there's plenty of time; and you can have the pony, as your horse is tired.”

“Fergus may go.”

“Why not you?”

“He has more time. I am busy just now.”

“Oh! Gilbert, how can you be so indifferent? Your friend is dying!”

“He is not, I tell you.”

I sent Fergus next morning, with my mother's compliments, to make the requisite inquiries. The young squire had a broken head and a severe cold; but there were no broken bones.

Chapter XV

That day was rainy like its predecessor, and the next morning was fair and promising. I was out on the hill with the reapers. While I stood with folded arms, something gently pulled my shirt. A voice said,

“Mr. Markham, mamma wants to see you.”

“Wants to see me, Arthur?”

“Yes. Why do you look so queer?” said he. “Come! Won't you come?”

“I'm busy just now,” I replied.

He looked up in childish bewilderment. But before I spoke again, the lady herself was at my side.

“Gilbert, I must speak with you!” said she.

I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered nothing.

“Only for a moment,” pleaded she. “Just step aside into this other field.”

I accompanied her through the gap.

“Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,” said she.

The child hesitated.

“Go, Arthur!” repeated she more urgently.

“Well, Mrs. Graham?” said I, calmly and coldly.

She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the heart.

“I don't ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,” said she, with bitter calmness. “I know it too well. But though I can be condemned by everyone else, and bear it with calmness, I cannot endure it from you. Why did you not come to hear my explanation?”

“Because I learned everything – and a trifle more, I imagine.”

“Impossible!” cried she, passionately. “I wanted to tell you everything, but I won't now. I see you are not worthy of it!”

And her pale lips quivered with agitation.

“Why not, may I ask?”

“Because you never understood me. Because you listened to my traducers. Go! I won't care what you think of me.”

She turned away, and I went. Little Arthur was running by her side and apparently talking as he went. And I returned to my business.

But I soon began to regret my precipitancy. It was evident she loved me – probably she was tired of Mr. Lawrence, and wished to exchange him for me. But still I was curious to know her explanation. I wanted to know what to despise, and what to admire in her; how much to pity, and how much to hate. But what a fool I was! She deceived me, injured me!

“Well, I'll see her, however,” was my resolve, “but not today: today and tonight she may think upon her sins. Tomorrow I will see her once again, and know something more about her.”

I came to the old Hall the next day. I approached the shrine of my former divinity. Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress. She was not there, but there was her little round table with a book upon it. This volume I did not see before. It was Sir Humphry Davy's “Last Days of a Philosopher,” and on the first leaf was written, “Frederick Lawrence.”

I closed the book, but kept it in my hand. She entered, calm, pale, collected.

“Mr. Markham?” said she, with severe but quiet dignity.

I answered with a smile,

“Well, I have come to hear your explanation.”

“I won't give it,” said she. “I said you were unworthy of my confidence.”

“Oh, very well,” replied I and moved to the door.

“Stay a moment,” said she. “This is the last time I shall see you:don't go just yet.”

I remained.

“Tell me,” resumed she, “why did you believe these things against me? who told you; and what did they say?”

I paused a moment. Then I showed her the book that I still held in my hand. I pointed to the name and asked,

“Do you know that gentleman?”

“Of course I do,” replied she. “What next, sir?”

“How long is it since you saw him?”

“Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any other subject?”

“Oh, no one! God only knows what a blind, incredulous fool I have been. I was shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself confounded my infatuation!”

“What proof, sir?”

“Well, I'll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?”

“I do.”

“After I left you I turned back, just to see through the window how you were. I stood still, in the shadow. Then you both passed by.”

“And how much of our conversation did you hear?”

“I heard quite enough, Helen. You did me an injury you can never repair, you blighted the freshness and promise of youth. You made my life a wilderness! I will never forget it!..

You smile, Mrs. Graham,” said I.

“Did I?” replied she; “I was not aware of it. If I did, it was not for pleasure. It was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and feeling after all. But smiles and tears are alike with me. I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.”

She looked at me.

“Will you be glad,” resumed she, “to find that you were mistaken in your conclusions?”

“How can you ask it, Helen?”

“Will you be glad to discover I was better than you think?”

“Anything that can restore my former opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, will be gladly and eagerly received!”

Her cheeks burned. She did not speak, but came to her desk, and took a thick album or manuscript. She hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and thrust the rest into my hand:

“You needn't read it all; but take it home with you,” and hurried from the room.

But when I left the house, and was proceeding down the walk, she opened the window and said,

“Bring it back when you have read it. Don't tell about it to anybody. I trust to your honour.”

Then she closed the casement and turned away. I hurried home, and rushed upstairs to my room. And I began to read.

Chapter XVI

June 1st, 1821. We have just returned to Staningley. I am quite ashamed of my distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious and dull, my former amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I cannot enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books, because they have not power to arrest my attention. My head is haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at the same time.

How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before our departure for town!

“Helen,” said my aunt, “do you ever think about marriage?”

“Yes, aunt, often. But I don't think I will marry.”

“Why so?”

“Because, I imagine, there must be only a very, very few men in the world that I like to marry.”

“That is no argument at all. I want to warn you, Helen and to exhort you to be watchful and circumspect. You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen; there is plenty of time before you. You can boast a good family, a pretty considerable fortune and expectations. And I know many girls that have been the wretched victims of deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into snares and temptations.”

“Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.”

“Helen, don't boast, but watch. Keep a guard over your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive, coldly and dispassionately, every attention. First study; then approve; then love. Let your eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears deaf to all the fascinations of flattery. These are nothing – and worse than nothing – snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure the thoughtless to their own destruction. Principle is the first thing, after all; and next to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate wealth. Believe me, matrimony is a serious thing.”

She spoke it very seriously. I answered,

“I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say.”

At first, I was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life. Soon I began to weary of its mingled turbulence and constraint, and sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. My new acquaintances, both male and female, disappointed my expectations. I soon grew tired of their peculiarities and their foibles. They – the ladies especially – appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and artificial. The gentlemen seemed better, perhaps, it was because they flattered me; but I did not fall in love with any of them.

There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a rich old friend of my uncle's. He was old, ugly, disagreeable and wicked. And there was another, less hateful, but still more tiresome, because she favoured him – Mr. Boarham by name. I shudder still at the remembrance of his voice. He was beguiling himself with the notion that he was improving my mind by useful information.

One night, at a ball, he was more than usually tormenting. My patience was quite exhausted. The whole evening was insupportable: I had one dance with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr. Boarham came upon me. In vain I attempted to drive him away, his presence was disagreeable. A gentleman stood by, who was watching me for some time. At length, he withdrew, and went to the lady of the house to ask an introduction to me. Shortly after, they both came up, and she introduced him as Mr. Huntingdon, the son of a late friend of my uncle's. He asked me to dance. I gladly consented, of course. I found my new acquaintance a very lively and entertaining companion. There was a certain graceful ease and freedom about all he said and did.

“Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?” said my aunt, as we took our seats in the carriage and drove away.

“Worse than ever,” I replied.

She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject.

“Who was the gentleman you danced with last?” asked she, after a pause.

“It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle's old friend.”

“I have heard of young Mr. Huntingdon. They say, 'He's a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit wildish.'”

“What does 'a bit wildish' mean?” I inquired.

“It means destitute of principle, and prone to every vice that is common to youth.”

“That is no matter to me, as I am not likely to meet him again.”

It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. He came to my uncle. After that I often met him; sometimes in public, sometimes at home.

One day I looked from my window and beheld Mr. Boarham. Soon my aunt entered the room with a solemn countenance, and closed the door behind her.

“Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,” said she. “He wishes to see you. He is here on a very important errand – to ask your hand in marriage of your uncle and me.”

“I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to give it.”

“Helen!”

“What did my uncle say?”

“He said if you liked to accept Mr. Boarham's offer, you – ”

“And what did you say?”

“It is no matter what I said. What will you say? That is the question. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider well. If you intend to refuse him, give me your reasons.”

“I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how. I want to be civil. When I've got rid of him, I'll give you my reasons afterwards.”

“But, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself. I want to speak with you. Tell me, my dear, what are your objections to him? Do you deny that he is an upright, honourable man?”

“No.”

“Do you deny that he is sensible, sober, respectable?”

“No; he may be all this, but-”

“But Helen! Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! And noble, I may say. Think how – ”

“But I hate him, aunt,” said I.

“Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit? You hate him?!”

“I don't hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love him so much that I wish him a better wife than I – one as good as himself, or better – if you think that possible.”

“What objection do you find?”

“Firstly, he is at least forty years old and I am eighteen. Secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted. Thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar to mine. Fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly displeasing to me. And, finally, I have an aversion to his whole person.”

“Then compare him for a moment with Mr. Huntingdon and tell me which is the better man.”

“I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think him. But we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham.”

“But don't give him a denial. It will offend him greatly: say you have no thoughts of matrimony at present – ”

“But I have thoughts of it.”

“Or that you desire a further acquaintance.”

“But I don't desire a further acquaintance – quite the contrary.”

I left the room and went to Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing-room.

“My dear young lady,” said he, “I have your kind guardian's permission – ”

“I know, sir,” said I, “and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg to decline the honour you wish to confer. I think we were not made for each other.”

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